


Dark!Caleb AU

by sadtrashanonymous (shackalacklargebottom)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bad German translations, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, dark!caleb au, generous use of Fabricate spell, widomauk if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shackalacklargebottom/pseuds/sadtrashanonymous
Summary: The universe is multiplanar; time is multilinear. What happens to the Mighty Nein when their Caleb is switched for a Caleb from a darker timeline?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For @yettinim on Tumblr; here there be alternate timeline switching shenanigans! Not sure how to tag Trent Ikithon grossness, suggestions are appreciated.

_He feels, rather than hears, the soft thrum, vibrating through his bones and settling at the bottom of each of his ribs. His head swims, vertiginous, as he is (but iss not) pulled forward, feet firmly planted - and then everything goes dark behind opened eyelids. He breathes, deep - phosphorous, ozone, and some ancient, otherworldly scent that spices his lungs and quickens his blood. In the void, he watches billowy clouds of purple and blue grow on the horizon and quickly engulf the darkness as he passes. Dark silhouettes of passing spheres and other objects speed by, their shapes elongating more and more by his increasing speed. Tiny dots of light begin to prick at the edges of his vision, and soon stars peek by as well, backlighting the distant clouds in a faint gray nimbus. His limbs and face buzz as he approaches that familiar threshold, the headlong speed of it all in constant contrast to the steady, pulsing hum in his chest. His heart beats so rapidly as to be nearly one continuous, clenching ache, a cold dryness at his temples and on his tongue, and - with a flash of familiar, silvery light, he halts, stock-still._

_The faint shadows of an infinite array of Caleb Widogasts stride past, every which way, as he stills like an anchor among them. Hypnotized, he watches their darkened forms, so exactly identical and wildly different all at once, mill and stride down countless paths, until something snags at his periphery. As he turns, he sees one of the figures pause. Tall, straight-shouldered, with the profile of short-groomed hair and a clean-shaven jaw; Caleb and his possible-self acknowledge each other for an icy heartbeat, until the other Caleb turns and continues on his path._

_Frowning, he focuses on the rhythm of humming vibration, affixing himself to it, avoiding the pull of infinite Calebs that tug him down every conceivable path at once. The void seems to grow and swallow him, as the other Calebs withdraw further and further. He’s struck, yet again, by the indecipherable scale of emptiness and potential, of everything and nothing surrounding him; the ancient, immediate dark. Finally, he looks down, surrendering to the warm, welcoming pulse of light that appears not a foot from his chest, and gladly sinks in to the yearn to touch. A tiny mote of glittering gray energy floats into his chest, filling him with sharp, prickling heat and burning cold, and he sighs, content, as the void disappears, extinguished by the Fragment of Possibility._

_“…Caaaleb? CalebCalebCaleb- oh, you’re back!”_

_He blinks, and the lavender light of early morning stings his eyes. Immediately, the nauseating stench of rotting flesh floods him again; the blue tiefling girl is frozen, the tip of one finger stuck prodding at the center of his forehead, the other hand clutching her pink bag as it dangles, open._

_“Eh,_ ja _, sorry,” he murmurs, shaking the hazy scale of possibility from his head. He resists the urge to wretch and choke on the foul smell in the air. Jester smiles and withdraws, closing the bag with one-handed grace and slinging it back over her shoulders._

_“Okay, we’re ready!” she whispers, her voice coated, like everything else, in the morning dew. She crouches behind the scrubby bushes that conceal their position, and turns a firm nod over her left shoulder. Caleb watches the half-orc Fjord, from behind a moss-covered boulder several yards away, affirm and pass the signal on to Beau and Yasha, further still; turning his gaze upward, into the boughs above their heads, Caleb makes brief contact with a pair of catlike yellow eyes, and Nott nods her agreement as well. Then to his right, searching and failing in the green-dark undergrowth to find the lithe, purple form of Mollymauk, before -_

_\- a crossbow bolt sinks into one of the garish orange buds of the enormous plant before them, and sprays the misty morning air with the wet-green stench of decay._

_Immediately, each of the buds falls open, releasing a gurgling screech and another wave of rotting stink. Pale green tendrils, thick as a man’s leg, begin to unravel and uproot themselves from the soil, and one shoots out, whip-like, just above Jester’s head. She ducks it with ease, and the familiar giant lollipop floats from behind just above the shrieking plant and sinks deep into the green, sickly cluster at its center with a thud. From the left of the clearing, a blue blur jettisons out and strikes at a second tentacle, then a third, as Beau’s staff whips over her head and whirls into a fanning circle behind her back. Close behind comes Yasha, swinging overly wide at the creature’s muddy roots, burying her sword into the sodden turf. As the plant continues to rear up on writhing tendrils, Caleb nearly gags a second time; more soil and debris shake from the creature, and he can just make out the distorted forms of moss- and vine- covered skulls, ribcages, spines, and the like, a mass of corpses which form the heart of the monster._

_A string of strangled epithets, mingled Common and Infernal, explode from the stand of trees to Caleb’s right. Turning sharply on his heel, Molly swings one glowing sword at an approaching knot of vines and tentacles, just barely stopping short as the blossom tipping the end slithers through the air. With a wet, heaving sound, the flower opens to deposit a mildewed, humanoid corpse directly before the whirling tiefling, who thrusts his sword into the body with a dull crunch._

_“Oh, lovely, it makes friends!” barks Molly. Caleb raises a blackening hand, ignoring the continued curses from Mollymauk mingled now with a series of similar protests from Fjord, who’s dealing with a mossy-green corpse of his own - and a stream of fiery rays bursts forth, sinking directly into the plant’s center. Hissing shrieks bubble forth, and greenish steam erupts from the ashen wound Caleb’s blown deep into the plant, but still it continues on with its gruesome attack._

_There is a wet, sickly sound of a crossbow bolt embedding itself into something to Caleb’s left - the decaying body attacking Fjord goes down, with one of Nott’s well-aimed bolts loosed directly into the back of its head. The giant, spectral lollipop once again slams into the orange blossoms and green vegetation above the plant’s core, as Jester sprints from her hiding spot behind the bush to Fjord. Beau strikes another whirling series of blows to the tendrils approaching her before hauling Yasha to her feet, the pair beset by yet another vine-covered, skeletal body. Caleb whispers the tips of his fingers into glowing black once more, and another blast of flame erupts into the monster’s body - barely singeing past the circling form of Molly, as he lops off the zombie’s head with one artful swing._

_A third bolt strikes the body before Yasha and Beau, earning a muffled “Shit!” from the monk as it topples forward, moldering jaw agape, and falls still at their feet. A shrill whistling, followed by a slick, heavy thud and a growling cry from Fjord - he’s been hit by one of the flailing tendrils. There is a roaring cry of Infernal from Jester, and the shimmering lollipop crashes down a third time._

_“Finish it!” she calls, the edges of her words still rough and grinding Infernal._

_Ignoring the wretching, nauseous protest in his belly, Caleb closes his eyes and prepares a final, fiery blast, silently praying for the fight’s end. As he opens his eyes to unleash the burst of flame, he locks onto a single, perfectly outlined skull right at the center of the monstrous creature; one delicate, orange blossom peeks from inside the vacant eye socket._

_The spurt of flames goes just too wide, fizzling out above the clearing and into the pale purple morning sky._

_“Dammit!” Caleb hears Molly’s frustrated snarl, as the tiefling turns . “Caleb, try-”_

_The rest of Molly’s urging is cut short by a rapid burst from the center of the tiefling’s chest, as one of the creature’s tendrils spikes sharply through his back and emerges just below his heart. His words drowning in a spurt of blood, Molly only stares wide-eyed at the green and scarlet spearlike point, gurgling hoarsely._

_The cry that rips Caleb’s throat raw pulls every bit of air from his lungs and collapses his chest like a dying star. Focus, focus, focus, he thought desperately, and -_ calls _._

 _Something inside him begins to stir, then vibrate, then warm, and then burn with familiar pulsing energy. He feels… silvery. The air around him grows thick, nearly malleable, and as he breathes he focuses on the last fiery rays he had aimed at the creature, willing them in his memory to bend and strike true to the monster’s center. Everything around him slows to molasses-still, and a gray, oily radiance distorts his vision. He watches, ears and heart hammering, as the tendril withdraws from Molly’s chest in an exact backward path; he sees Molly mouth_ Caleb, try _\- turn to him, -_ dammit _\- and feels his own body shift, palm raised and burning -_

_The clearing buzzes into impossible, sharp silence. Caleb locks eyes with the orange-blossomed skull, exhales, and fires._

_The creature, engulfed in flame, gives one last piteous, hissing scream, and the flames wither it to a pile of ash, dust, and bleached white bones._

_The party remains still for a breath._

_“…Fuck.” Caleb hears Molly murmur. Then there’s a whooping cry from Beau, and a scattered rustling as Nott drops out of the tree behind him._

_“Caleb! Are you alright?” the goblin says, her black-slit pupils ringed entirely by yellow._

_“I’m absolutely fine, Nott, sweet of you to ask,” says Molly, his easy, loping strides to Caleb betrayed by the nervous flicking of his tail._

_“You guys? I think Fjord might be poisoned,” Jester calls from across the clearing. Nott waits for Caleb’s curt nod, before scurrying off, clawed hands already scrabbling at her bag for her alchemical supplies. Caleb turns wordlessly at the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, the wide-eyed thanks of Molly…_

        …and the entire forest dissolves, swirling, into silvery blue ripples.

        The surface of the scrying bowl gradually comes to a still, and in it is reflected a gaunt, sharply angled face, pockmarked and liver-spotted. Yellow-sheened skin hangs loosely in bags near the scrub white-bristled jaw, and hollowed at the cheeks. Wide-set, watery blue eyes are jaundiced at the whites, and clumps of stringy white hair cling above the man’s ears and encircle the shiny crown of his head.

        Trent Ikithon smirks, thin-lipped.

        “Caleb,” he says, clawing an arthritic hand to the stone pendant at his neck, “ _komm hier_.”

        Minutes pass, and then comes a soft tinkling slide of metal on metal, as the magical locks to Ikithon’s study open.

        “ _Ja, Meister Ikithon_?”

        A young man enters the room, dressed in the blue and gold military mantle given to all of Trent’s apprentices. Neat red hair, only just long enough to suggest a curl, glints in the dim firelight reflected across the surfaces of dozens of scrying bowls. The young man stands, a respectful distance behind his master, straight-shouldered and wiry, a lean, agile strength.

        “ _Das Leuchtfeuer_ , Caleb.” says Trent, oily and dark. “The Beacon.”

        “ _Soll ich es für dich holen, Meister_?” says Caleb. Proud, angular features twist, just so subtly, on the water’s surface, rippling into concentric, wolfish expressions. “Tell me where, and I will go.”

        Ikithon straightens, pauses. “Tell me what you know about scrying, Caleb.”

        Without hesitation, “It is a form of divination, using a focus - in this case, Master, bowls of holy water, sometimes crystals, or mirrors - through which one may see a person or object of their choosing. The spell becomes more effective the more knowledge you are able to obtain of the target, or if you have a portrait, a possession, or better yet,” he finishes, “a body part.”

        “Very good,” Ikithon concedes. “A minor correction. Under normal circumstances, one may only divine something which exists on the same plane,” he said, lightly stroking one gnarled finger across the surface of the bowl in front of him. “However, in this study, I have created a pocket dimension through which we simultaneously occupy all and none of the planes. What does that mean, Caleb?”

        “Each of these may be used to scry on a different plane,” Caleb answers, with certainty.

        “And more,” corrects the old Master. He pauses again, staring deep into his own reflection. “Time, much like our multiplanar Universe, is not a singular thing,” he said. “It fractures, it bifurcates, it,” and he gently skimmed the water again “ripples, over and over, collecting in infinite loops. In some cases.” He lets his pupil reflect on this for half a breath. “I have also collected means to scry on timelines alternate to our own, Caleb. Universes which are hardly recognizable as parallels to our own, timelines in which one single action altered the course of history… and some, which, in the grand scheme of things,” he grinned sharply, “are not very different from our own.

        “The Beacon is an unusual artifact,” Ikithon goes on. “Can you tell me why?”

         Caleb inclines his head, politely; a trained soldier might have noticed the tenseness in his shoulders, anticipating admonition.

        “If,” he begins, “as you say, the natural order of the universe is to exist, multiplicate… then one could assume something unusual would exist outside that order, in- singularity.” Caleb concludes. “There is only one.”

        “Excellent,” says Ikithon, beckoning his pupil closer. Caleb complies, stepping forward briskly to watch the rippling font over his master’s shoulder. “In all the many timelines I am able to divine, there is only one Beacon, Caleb. And,” allows Ikithon, “shall I tell you something interesting about the person who currently possesses it?” He generously accepts his student’s polite silence before finishing, “I can’t see him.”

        “But… you know his identity, Master?” says Caleb, hungrily. Ikithon grins again, reaches up, and pulls one red hair from just behind his student’s ear. He deposits the hair on the water’s surface, and, in the ripples, watches something cold and cruel draw Caleb’s piercing blue eyes half-closed in recognition.

        “I’ve got a task for you, Caleb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when the first chapter was in past tense? That wasn't a great decision. (I've since updated.) As always, suggestions on how to tag Trent Ikithon and help with bad German is always appreciated.

        “I know it’s terribly difficult to keep your eyes off me, Mr. Caleb, but you’re making me, unbelievably, a little self-conscious,” Molly says languidly. “Is there something on my face?”

        “ _Nein_ , no, sorry Mollymauk,” replies Caleb, quietly, over his shoulder. Though the cart is, as of that afternoon, one small kenku lighter, the party is not piled atop one another as is their typical traveling style; Jester had taken to the cart with uncharacteristic silence the moment they’d left Hupperdook, her pencil scribbling morosely at her sketchbook. Nott had clambered into Jester’s lap, idly fidgeting with a stack of rings - _woher hat sie die? -_ and the rest had entered a taciturn agreement to let the two share the loss of their little Kiri in peace.

__

        Fjord is left to drive the cart, with the others on horseback, Beau and Yasha hovering just before the cart and Caleb and Molly single-filed behind.

        Caleb looks over his shoulder again, and Molly cocks one eyebrow even higher.

        “Darling, at this rate, we’re going to have to pull over and catch up with the others later,” Molly says. “Although, I’ll warn you, I’m not cheap.” The tiefling nudges his horse and catches up, neck and neck, to Caleb. The red slide of one eye is nearly imperceptible in the early evening sun.

        “Is there someone following us?” Molly murmurs.

        Caleb locks on the back of the cart, willing himself not to turn a third time. “No, I… think I am just nervous that someone saw Nott-” He stops just before _steal-_ and _that guard’s-_ and _contraption._

__

        “Well, they can’t exactly do much if we’ve already left town,” Molly says, conciliatory. Caleb nods.

__

        “That is true.” For lack of anything further to add, Molly gives him a wink, and watches the confused pink crawl toward the wizard’s ears.

__

        They travel in silence until the sun begins to dip below the hills, and Caleb ignores the feeling of eyes skittering like so many bugs over his back. Mollymauk’s eyes on him - that feels warm, and fluid, like the first slip into a hot bath - _that’s odd_ , he thinks - and this is not that feeling. The others don’t seem perturbed, though, so he makes a firm mental note to set an Alarm as soon as they make camp, and to take the first watch.

__

They stop at a stand of trees at the roadside. Molly makes a show of unveiling the sumptuous rations he procured for them in Hupperdook, and with a full belly and a clear sky above, Caleb and Nott settle in to watch over the others as they unpack their bedrolls and sleep.

__

        “Caleb?” Nott’s voice, rasping just louder than the crackling fire.

__

        “Hmm?” Caleb pauses, one hand reaching behind his neck, where he realizes he’s been scratching at an invisible itch - more eyes.

__

        “Are you alright? You seem,” and she waves a hand in front of her face.

__

        “I’m alright,” he reassures her. He watches her watch him stare into the fire, out of the corner of his eye, before he continues. “Are you?”

__

        “I think so,” she says, soft. Her ears droop, crestfallen, and the slits of her pupils widen her eyes into sad golden rings, like the ones she so covets covering her fingers. A clumsy rush of affection swells and tides to calm in Caleb’s chest.

__

        “It was too dangerous for her to stay,” she says, as if in agreement with nobody in particular. “But… it’s nice, when someone doesn’t…” She trails off lamely, and Caleb wants so badly for just a second to snap his fingers and make her hurt disappear.

__

        “Children see the good in things,” he agrees. “Or so I’m told. And you certainly have enough of it.” She smiles at that, sadly, without a glint of fangs in the firelight.

__

        “Thank you, Caleb.”

__

        Their watch passes, uneventful, and Nott rouses Fjord and Yasha for the next shift. Caleb curls into his bedroll, and through one drowsy, half-lidded eye, he watches Jester slink off after Fjord before sleep settles over him.

__

        Later, hours or minutes indeterminate, something prickles him into half-consciousness.

__

        The fire glows low and orange, just enough to make out a figure creeping at the edge of camp. Drowsiness leaks out and drains from him, but too slow - Caleb just makes out the full though _my Alarm spell?_ before the figure freezes, predatory, and approaches him with cold confidence.

__

        He opens his mouth to cry out, to rouse the others, but his voice sinks to the pit of his belly, because surely he can’t be seeing what he’s seeing - a flashing glint in the moonlight off the epaulettes of the figure’s blue and gold military mantle -

__

_\- Trent - he’s found me -_

__

        Caleb bolts.

__

        He tumbles from his bedroll, not graceful but certainly agile enough, a tangle of limbs and coat, and sprints. He has no conscious plan, nothing eloquent to think, only _run._ Behind him, he hears the figure give chase - _only one, for now_ \- and has sense enough to zig-zag, darting and weaving through trees and brush. He fumbles in a pocket, fingers closing around the end of a licorice root, _Haste, Haste, bitte,_ and suddenly the trees fall away from his periphery.

__

        The forest opens up into a clearing, eerily perfect and circular, with charred stumps and ashen, half-dead brush ringing the edge. The ground within is nothing but cinders, over which is spread a glowing, purple ritual ring. The runes pulse faintly; Caleb feels the arcane power surge over his skin and through his blood.

__

        A body collides into his from behind.

__

        It has been decades since, but Caleb’s body remembers what it’s like to be outmuscled in a schoolyard scrap - the figure digs a knee into his back and tries to work a hand into his hair, shoving his face into the dusty earth, but Caleb worms free, twists to face the assailant -

__

        “ _Gib es mir oder stirb!_ ”

__

_Give? Give what?_ he almost manages, but somewhere in the scrap and tangle he freezes, because the face Caleb is looking into is a perfect mirror of his own.

__

        No, not perfect - their jaw is just too cleanly shaven, to precise, military degree; their mouth untwisted into a messy, snarling grimace like Caleb’s own, but rather a calm, grim line; their eyes, unhollowed by years, colder, sharper.

__

_This… is why the Alarm never warned me?_

__

        The other Caleb has frozen, too, reading him. Caleb scrambles, manages a solid kick to his mirror’s solar plexus, and realizes that the warmth he feels radiating from the hand locking his arm to the dirt is this second Caleb’s hand glowing, preparing something fiery and unpleasant.

__

        “ _Geben? Was geben?_ ”

__

        His copy studies him through narrow eyes.

__

        “You are guilty,” he concludes, and Caleb knows that look. It’s been years, again, since he’s needed to subject someone else to it, since he’s really needed the training he received on how to tell if someone is lying. The other Caleb wears his mask carefully, but Caleb can see the disgust peeking through. The glowing heat abates, and instead the purple runes surrounding the two brighten - Caleb listens carefully to his double’s whispering…

__

        The clearing disappears, dissolving into smoke and sparks.

__

        Caleb has the unhealthy sensation of his entire body being turned inside out. When he regains his bearings, he realizes he is on all fours, gripping cold flagstone, heaving. A boot connects with the fleshy part of his side, between ribs and hips.

__

        “Up, curr,” mutters his own voice in his ear, contemptuously.

__

        “Caleb! _Was ist das?_ ”

__

        Caleb’s veins turn to ice water. The voice in his head resumes screaming _RUN, RUN, RUN_ . His elbows and knees go numb, and he feels his hands curling into uselessness, his own breath too shallow and too massive to keep contained in his chest. The rhythm of it is too wrong, _Trent, run, danger, run -_

__

        A wrench of pain at his scalp pulls his head up and face forward, and he looks, in person, into eyes he’s seen countless times, just before waking in a cold sweat.

__

        Trent Ikithon smiles, wormlike. “Thank you for the gift, Caleb,” he says. “But he does not have what we seek. The tiefling, the female - it is hers. Quickly, before the circle closes,” and his voice edges just into something like lava. The other Caleb salutes, and as Ikithon drags him out of circle of glowing runes, Caleb watches his double shimmer and disappear again.

__

        “Welcome back, Caleb,” Ikithon murmurs. There is a small pang in which Caleb needs to switch from alienness to familiarity of Zemnian. “I trust you have the sense enough not to do anything foolish. In your state, it would take next to nothing to incapacitate you,” and he chirrs, in a facsimile of kindness, “Nor do I wish to.”

__

         Caleb straightens, swallowing dry into the pool of bile collecting at the base of his throat.

__

        “You were not with me long enough, in your timeline, to have the privilege of visiting this study, were you?” Ikithon continues. “A pity. The Caleb Widogast of this timeline is quite useful. You might have been much the same.” Ikithon releases his grip on Caleb’s hair; a small spark, and Caleb smells a whiff of smoke, feels a faint gust of heat, hears the ghosts of screams. “If only.”

__

        Caleb’s eyes dart around the study. _Left - door, certain to be magically locked and trapped. Floor - ritual circle, likely teleportation. Desks - casting components (expensive, assorted spells) - bookshelves (useful) - fireplace - tables. Bowls, 16, scattered, assorted styles and materials - water-filled -_

__

        “Scrying bowls, yes,” says Ikithon, aloud. “At least you’ve retained some of your wits, hmm?” One wizened claw grazes over the hollow above Caleb’s collarbone. “Which reminds me,” he mutters, and crooks his fingers into Caleb’s shirt, hooking around the chain of his amulet. He pulls, and the pendant looses with a _pop!_

__

        Ikithon tucks the protective amulet into a white fold of his robe.

__

        “Not that there’s much point,” he concedes. “I don’t think you’ll be returning to your own timeline. Anytime soon, anyway. I won’t have much need to go looking for you.”

__

        “My,” Caleb wets his lips and attempts again. “My timeline?”

__

        Ikithon’s face glints with something that could be mistaken for geniality. “Yes,” he says, and crosses to a silver font with ornate embellishments along its rim. “This one, in fact.”

__

        Despite every part of him still screaming to run as far as he can in the opposite direction, Caleb takes a step toward Ikithon, then another. _He’s looking for Jester. The Mighty Nein could take_ me _down, easily, but this other Caleb…_ _that’s what Trent wants. For me to watch…_

__

        “Caleb. Come.” Ikithon says, harsh, and something deep in Caleb stirs to obey. He approaches, and peers uneasily into the bowl. Ikithon does the same.

__

        The sound is all sucked away like bathwater down a drain, and Caleb sees -

__

_\- Yasha and Fjord, frozen, hands at their swords, struggling in minute twitches of muscle. Jester turns and runs, and - collides with the arms of a dark figure. She thrashes in its grip as a group of shadows emerges from the trees, splitting off and roughly grabbing the other two. A pair of hooded shadows smothers each one, and begin to shove gags in mouths and bind rope to bodies. Fjord, shackled, falls with eerie, silent heaviness, and Jester’s noiseless scream is stifled by the rag stuffed in her mouth._

__

_Yasha, cornered by another pair, becomes a metallic flash of starlight among shadows, swinging her blade - a splash of blood darkens her face, her chest, the grass at her feet. She slashes again, but the second assailant catches her arm tightly from behind, wresting the blade behind her back. The clang-shut manacles make no noise, nor does Yasha’s sword as it drops to the blood-wet grass. Her face twists, frenzied, into a scream - she is gagged, and dragged, kicking wildly. A third figure emerges to slam a pair of manacles on her ankles._

__

_The group is hauled through the wet grass, piled onto carts like so much cargo..._

__

        A hoarse cry is stuck at Caleb’s lips as the scene ripples away. His knuckles go white at the rim of the font.

__

        “ _Warum_?” he lashes, through grit teeth. “Why take them?”

__

_Because they’re heretics and Xhorhasian rebels and… Fjord, powerful, mystery._

__

        The Archmage’s brow creases deep into his ridged forehead, and he says nothing. Caleb knows better than to expect an answer. _Nott will die,_ he thinks, _on sight_ , and he swallows his own heart for a beat. He watches Trent’s eyes go ringed with yellow-white -

__

        - _this isn’t his doing?_

__

        “ _Verdammt,_ ” Trent murmurs, his parched and greying lips barely moving. Caleb’s mind flicks -

__

        - _this isn’t his doing, this is a problem -_

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        Trent snarls into his gnarled fingertips, clutching the stone around his neck. “ _Das Leuchtfeuer!_ ” Quietly, but not quietly enough - and Caleb’s flickering thoughts flare into realization.

__

_The Beacon_.

__

        “It is being intercepted.” Trent’s oily voice becomes dusty and urgent. “Find them, neutralize them, do not let it slip through our grasp, _verstanden?_ ” He peers deep into the water, eyes filmy and far away.

__

_Trent wants the dodecahedron._

__

_Jester has the dodecahedron._

__

_Jester is being taken._

__

 

__

_Is it better to let this other Caleb stop Jester and the others being taken,_ _and let Trent take the dodecahedron?_ _  
_

__

_Is it better to keep Trent from getting the dodecahedron, and let them be taken?_

__

 

__

_If Trent does not know where the dodecahedron is, then I do not know where Jester is._

__

_I can’t help if I don’t know where they are._

__

 

__

_Can I help at all?_

__

 

__

        Caleb takes a deep breath and reaches into his pockets, left hand fumbling for a length of string, right hand for a piece of wood.

__

        At the other end of the room, Schmidt materializes and begins noisily upending each of the scrying bowls.

__

        Trent’s eyes drain of their haze, and he relinquishes his grip on the font. “ _Vas?!”_ he snarls, and steps away from the bowl, just enough, just enough - and Caleb darts forward, tipping it over and splashing the water in sheets over the marble floor.

__

        “ _Gottsverdammt!_ ”

__

        Caleb finds himself paralyzed, an unfortunate mirror of Fjord, or Yasha, unable to move as Trent advances on him. There is poison in his jaundiced, rheumy eyes. He snaps a furious hand at the opposite wall, and Caleb feels a crawling wall of force shatter Schmidt out of existence.

__

        “Caleb,” he says into the pendant at his neck. “The visual on them was lost. Track it on your own until I...” He turns, listening. “Then _get_ closer! There is only so much time before the circle…” His eyes narrow, and he _hmmphs._ “Return, then. It is not lost, yet.” He drops the stone on its chain, and with a twist more sharp and dextrous than expected of the old man, he backhands Caleb sharply across the face.

__

        A wave of cold, visceral fear jolts from the point at which the Archmage’s hand struck him, and pools in his chest.

__

        “Always that streak of willfulness in you, Caleb,” Trent says, delicately rubbing the backs of his knuckles. “No matter. No dog knows obedience until he has a master.” Caleb struggles, vainly trying to move, to run, to cast anything he can think of.

__

        In a flash of purple, the circle at the center of the room glows, and his doppelgӓnger appears.

__

        “ _Meister,_ I-”

__

        “Silence.” Trent gives him a moment to survey the chamber. Caleb watches himself swallow his composure, then bow his head.

__

        “What is next?” his own voice, murmured from strange lips.

__

        “You will follow them,” Trent says, unctuously. “The thieves are traveling by wagon, heading northwest. You are skilled, their numbers will mean nothing to you. Destroy them.” He surveys the study in disgust. “By that time, I will have a new circle in place. I will contact you with instructions to create the second circle in your timeline.” The other Caleb snaps his head, affirming in a nod. “Until I complete the scrying ritual, I will not be able to look into your timeline, Caleb. Do not be foolish. Do not fail me.”

__

        Caleb’s double steps back into the fading circle.

__

        “Wait,” says Trent. He looks to his captive, still paralyzed. He circles Caleb thoughtfully, then runs one twisted hand over Caleb’s shoulder and down his arm. “That tiefling… if she keeps hold of her possessions, it may be easier to retrieve the Beacon if she believes you to be of _her_ timeline.” He grips Caleb’s arm roughly, and wrestles his coat from his shoulders. “And it would do to separate this one from his spellcasting components, I think. Here,” and he tosses the coat to Caleb’s double.

__

        The other Caleb sheds his blue and gold mantle, frowning, and reaches to his hip for a holstered spellbook. He flips through it, then whispers, brushing light fingertips over his own chest and to his belt; his neat uniform shimmers, and the threads begin to fray, tatter, weave themselves into a passable facsimile of Caleb’s worn traveler’s clothes.

__

        He dons Caleb’s coat, steps into the teleportation circle, and disappears in a flash of purple.

__


End file.
